It’s just…chicken.

411: Fogging up the glass display case at Cakelove

Listening to: The sweet sweet sound of a ’97 Honda Civic before I talk it’s owner into buying after-market exhaust

I just had “the chicken“.

It was good. It took me an hour to find the place, and then I waited in line for forty minutes to order takeout. I was, without fail, the only non-Latino person there who wasn’t brought by a native Spanish speaker.

The coolest thing was the mural walls. Pollo Campero is decorated like a Spanish McDonalds, and they don’t feel the need to translate anything into English (except the menu, of course).

Ironically enough, the mascot is a chicken beckoning you to eat here, and he seems really happy about his gig. He’s a really happy chicken. That ought to weird me out, but it’s effect is lessened because I have no idea what the word balloons said. As far as I know it’s, “Try my legs, buddy”, or perhaps, “In your next life, you’ll come back as the thing you ate the most of, jackass”.

The car traffic is so bad there that they have three county cops directing traffic. As I headed back to my motorcycle, a cop followed me. Did I do something wrong? Am I busted? Do I really want to get searched behind a greasy chicken place while wearing leather chaps?

Nope, he was just tickled by the concept of a guy taking $40 in fried chicken home on a motorcycle that he wanted to say hi, and he helped me load it into the saddlebags.

And I didn’t even have to empty my pockets.